


Stone walls

by Ariana (Ariana_El)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Reminiscence, Vinyamar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-20 16:38:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16141259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: Finrod and Fingon walk the empty streets of Vinyamar.





	Stone walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Levade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Levade/gifts).



> Story written for Innumerable Stars 2018.  
> Here's the request I got from Levade: I'd love to see a story set in Vinyamar or even before then, before Turgon moved his people to Gondolin. Was there interaction with Cirdan's folk -- were his people happy to find relatives from across the sea? How did Fingon feel when his brother up and moved his people to Gondolin? Did he know about it? Did he wonder where they went and did he resent not being told if he wasn't? How about Fingolfin? Finrod? I might have missed tags because this is last minute! No slash/femslash, no incest please. Broship is fine.
> 
> I hope I managed to meet the prompt at least to some degree.
> 
> Many thanks to Bunn for doing a thorough beta-reading and pushing me when I needed it.

**Stone walls**

The city gates stood wide open. No guard came to greet the two riders and though the watchtowers on both sides carried the signs of the house of Turgon, no banners flew on the masts above.

Fingon rode first, looking grimly around, seeking for any sign of life even as it was plain he would find none. All the magnificent houses and terraces standing witness to the craftsmanship of the Noldorin builders and architects were painfully empty. No  wagons rattled on the wide streets.

Following his cousin, Finrod couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Tirion had looked when his father had returned to Valinor with his host. The sun shone now above their heads, but then, in the light of the fires lit after the Trees were destroyed... It must have been an even more dreadful sight, horrified as they had all been then.

The farther they went, the grimmer the city appeared. No lanterns shone in the windows, no fountains whispered in the squares, no scent of freshly baked bread came from the bakery they passed. The forges, shut down, were completely silent.

There were still tables standing on the market place with strong ropes stretched above them, supporting canvas, which had once protected goods from the sun and rain. Finrod remembered there was a similar market place on the lower terraces on the western side, where the Teleri used to sell fish, but also music instruments of their own making and sophisticated wood products. But now the market, once bustling with life, was empty. Everything movable had been taken; the rest stayed, abandoned.

Deprived of smells and sounds, the city was all but dead.

Fingon didn’t even pause for a moment. He rode stubbornly up to his brother’s palace. He passed bridges set cleverly over the streets, allowing to move between the houses. Sometimes a narrow footbridge went from the top floor of one house to the terrace of another one and it would be easy to get lost, but Fingon knew exactly where he was going. He seemed to ignore the fact that the gardens surrounding houses on each level, once blossoming, were now slowly disappearing under uneven grass and wild ivy.

Finally they reached the palace, but no one came to greet them. The giant doors opened lightly as Fingon pushed them. Finrod’s eyebrows went high as he watched his cousin boldly leading his horse into the throne hall, but then he just followed him. There was no one to reprove them, after all.

They stopped on the highest terrace, by a fountain that no longer worked. Without the whispering water, splashing and glimmering in the sun, the white statue in the middle, hidden under filigree arches curving from the railing, seemed cold and distant, indifferent to the two elves.

Fingon walked slowly, lost deep in thoughts. He looked around and Finrod could guess easily what he was thinking.

Oh, how different that terrace looked the last time they had gathered here! There had been an orchestra seated on the stairs leading straight to the palace. The song they sang had carried joy and the promise of a new, peaceful life.

***

_On the fiftieth anniversary of their arrival in Middle-earth, Turgon held a great festival. No orc had dared to set a foot outside the pits of Angband in many years and the Noldor were prospering in the new lands. Thirty years had passed since the High King Fingolfin had held The Feast of Reuniting and this time it was Turgon hosting the king and some of the Noldorin princes, as well as Cirdan and his folk._

_The city was long since ready, a great structure of white stone and wood facing the wide sea. The high towers of the palace stood majestically against the winds carrying the salty breeze and the cries of the gulls. Wide roads led from one level to another, up to the highest place. The great green terraces making huge stairs up to the palace blossomed, the ivy climbing up the pillars of the houses and arcades, falling down in curtains of purple flowers._

_The festival lasted three days. It was too early in the year to celebrate all the crops they would harvest, but nevertheless there was plenty of fresh food and wine, both produced by the Noldor and brought from Cirdan’s havens. To serve such a great audience, several terraces had been prepared within the city, the most important being the one by the palace._

_The whole city  was loud with music and singing, each terrace having their own musicians. Finrod regretted Maglor was not among them, but none of the sons of Feanor had come. He knew not what excuses they had offered, but seeing how happy Turgon looked, Finrod decided that maybe it was for the best. After all, their cousins in the East had a great deal to build and develop too, perhaps they were not yet ready with their own fortifications._

_At some point one of the flute players left the group of musicians seated on the stairs. Keeping the merry melody, he ran down the stairs to the terrace, full of dancers who stepped away to let him pass. Ecthelion, for it was he, bowed to a lady he had almost run into and she laughed before dancing away._

_Sitting on the top of the stairs as he was playing his harp, Finrod watched as one of Turgon’s best architects climbed the balustrade encircling the fountain he had designed. He strutted on the narrow railing, his fingers running swiftly on the flute._

_Many were laughing at the antics of the merry player, but Aredhel, dancing in the crowd, whirled, her skirts flying around her, and called him. Ecthelion turned towards her just as he was about to step over a springer of an arch that curved towards the column in the middle of the fountain._

_A trip, a startled cry and a splash of water that disappeared in laughter. Glorfindel, whom Finrod knew well enough from the many journeys he and Turgon had made, rushed to rescue his friend, a tiny sunflower hanging from his hair. Ecthelion accepted his help to get up, but then he ducked back into the water to fish out his flute. Soaking wet, he stepped out of the fountain and shook his hair, then smiled dashingly and offered Glorfindel a hand to ask him to dance in a teasing way. Glorfindel bowed in a similar manner and they both disappeared among the dancers._

***

“He truly is gone.”

The words echoed against the walls of the atrium surrounding them; the sun was sharp here, so the ivy, no longer watered, died and didn’t muffle the sounds. Gone were the songs of the festival.

“He wanted his people to be safe,” offered Finrod, trying to shake off the image of the crowds he had seen here the previous time. “You know what he’s like.”

 “Did he?” Fingon laughed doubtingly and glanced at his cousin. “Or was it just about getting away from all of us? Getting somewhere where he could be an independent king? Somewhere without our cousins? I know some things cannot be forgotten, but is isolation really the right option?”

Once Fingon had opened up, he could not stop his emotions flooding out, but Finrod didn’t mind. He might have been Turgon’s friend, but he knew Fingon well enough to know that his cousin was a plain and straightforward person. Fingon could never hide his emotions nor bury his grievances. If he was joyful, he laughed, if he was upset, he cried. He needed to share his grief rather than let it burden his heart. And maybe, just maybe he needed a friendly soul to listen to him, someone who was going to miss Turgon as well.

Fingon sank down to sit on the edge of the fountain.

“Please, tell me, Findarato. Do you know where he went?”

“Nay, Findo. I wish I knew, but Turko never shared this secret with me.” Finrod shook his head. “Has he not told your father either?”

“No. I wish Atto had ordered him to say when he had a chance. But now he’s gone and no one knows where. We have peace now, but what if the time comes when we will need all our strength? Turukano took with him a considerable part of our forces.” Fingon stood up abruptly.

“I refuse to believe he has abandoned us for good,” Finrod said, though he was far from optimistic himself. He would have given a lot to know his friend’s plans. “He shall return to us.” He wished he could really believe in his words, but Fingon looked like he needed to hear that.

“Unless some evil gets him first and he perishes without us even knowing,” growled Fingon darkly, pacing along the low railing encircling the fountain. “And I wish he hadn't taken Irisse with him. She’s far too wild to be kept hidden anywhere, and I guess that’s Turukano’s idea of being safe.”

Finrod could not disagree. Aredhel was a free spirit and she loved wide, open spaces. He wondered how  it had come to pass that she had gone with Turgon, but he hoped she was going to love her new home; otherwise she would soon become insufferable.

But Fingon’s words reminded him also of his own desires that had led to carving the city in the caves of Nargothrond. If Turgon’s trail of thoughts had been similar in any way, then Fingon rightly guessed that hiding was his definition of safety. Sadly, there was no way to prove it.

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” he said at last and smiled. “Perhaps Turko did find a truly safe place.”

“Perhaps.” Fingon didn’t look too convinced. “There’s nothing for us here. Let’s go home.”

***

The sun was falling into the sea as they rode down the main road leading to the gates. The city shone in the last rays, then vanished slowly in the dusk. Long ages would pass before another soul would walk the abandoned streets. Long ages awaited those walls; ages of reminiscence of the elves long gone. But this evening they said a silent farewell to the two cousins as they rode East.

 

 

 


End file.
